Homecoming
by ladybrit
Summary: I had to write this ATC for There was Never a Horse (season 4). Matt and Chester had left such a mess in Doc's office that I wondered what he would think had happened when he returned home. Thanks to Lilyjack for help with the "Chesterisms"


Doc returns home. (An ATC for There was never a Horse )

It had not been a day without rewards. The family that Adams had driven out to check on were all doing well, thanks a little to his skill, and maybe more to the toughness of the men and women who dared to come out and face this harsh frontier land. It was late, probably not too late to stop by the Long Branch for a night cap, but he knew he had a bottle hidden in his desk and was tired enough to appreciate the quiet of his own office.

The stairs creaked a little as he climbed, and his tired knees joined them in harmony. He hadn't expected to be this late coming home but a little peaceful fishing at Turkey Creek on the way back, had been irresistible. He hadn't caught anything worth keeping, but maybe that was just as well. He'd be too tired to set about cleaning and cooking fish at this time of night.

He hauled himself up to the top step and rested his hand on the door knob. It turned easily - maybe he had forgotten to lock it on his way out this morning, but he doubted that.

Even in the darkness he could tell that something was wrong - the place just didn't feel quite right. He reached for the matches from on top of the shelf by the stove, and lit a lamp.

"What in tarnation…?!" he exclaimed as his eyes gradually adjusted to the yellow flickering light. It was as if some kind of storm had passed through his office leaving chaos and confusion in its wake. The doors to several of his glass medical cabinets were hanging open. There were blood stains in the large bowl he kept for washing his hands, and a bandana, still wet with blood, was lying on the floor. His supply of suture needles, which he had carefully sterilized and arranged by size in a lidded enamel dish, was no longer in the cabinet where it belonged. He found them perched precariously on a nearby stool but the lid was nowhere in sight. He looked around in dismay, cursing under his breath. Some dad-blamed fool must have broken in here looking for drugs or something. He began to gather his stock of bandages. Some had been carelessly thrown onto the table and others were hanging half out of the cabinet where they had previously been stored, neatly rolled, in orderly rows. It was as if some crazed animal had broken in and deliberately destroyed his ordered environment.

He picked up what he could salvage and tried to straighten most of the mess, but by now he was angry. Who would do such a thing to his carefully kept medical supplies? He squatted to the ground to retrieve his surgical scissors which had been carelessly thrown to the floor. He looked at them carefully - probably no permanent damage had been done, but they were blood stained and would need to be cleaned thoroughly before being used again.

By now he was no longer tired - or basking in the warmth of his medical success of the day. He pulled out his watch and looked at it. Most likely the Long Branch would still be open for a few special customers. Knowing that was where the law was most likely to be found at this hour, he left the mess and, closing the outer office door, made his way back down the stairs. He was fired up by the fact that someone had invaded his private territory and, it seemed, deliberately set out to destroy the office he kept so meticulously arranged. Somewhere in the back of his mind though, he remembered the blood-stained bandana he'd found, and a vague sense of uneasiness came over him.

The Long Branch was almost deserted. Adams was relieved to see that his friends were all well and apparently unharmed and as usual at this hour, were sitting huddled around the table in the back corner, near the foot of the stairs.

Kitty looked up as he entered.

"Come and join us, Doc," she called to him.

He pulled on his ear and, walking a little stiffly as a result of the long day in that old buggy, made his way towards them.

Sam had been cleaning the bar while Clem was stacking chairs and sweeping the floor. A double shot of whisky found its way to the table and he sat down in front of it.

"Mr. Marshal!" he announced gruffly, after swiping his mustache a time or two, "I have a complaint about the way you run this town."

Matt and Chester both turned to look at him – Chester, he noticed, maybe had a little guilt showing on his face. Adams stopped to take a swig from the glass in his hand which gave him time to think before continuing.

"Some delinquent has been up in my office scattering all my medical supplies and…" It was then that he caught sight of the bandage protruding from beneath the cuff of Matt's half rolled shirt sleeve. Abruptly his attitude changed. Now instead of being angry, he was the concerned physician. What had happened to his friend? Matt was hurt and had needed his skills and he hadn't been here. Instead he had been passing a lazy afternoon by Turkey Creek, basking in self-satisfaction and making a half-hearted attempt to catch the big catfish he never even saw.

"Let me see that." He reached over to take Dillon's arm and pushed back the remnants of the torn sleeve. He found a roughly applied bandage with a large bloodstain - but at least the blood had dried..

"Suppose you tell me what happened." Adams sounded almost angry.

Chester's painfully chagrined expression showed that he was feeling more than a bit responsible for the doctor's state of mind. His mouth opened and shut and he held his hands before him, signifying that he thought maybe he should be the one to explain matters. Finally gathering the courage, the normally slowly-speaking man's words rushed out in a torrent, the whole story of how the office came to be such a big ol' mess released quickly so as to be less painful perhaps:

"Well, it was just the dadgumdest thing, Doc. Mister Dillon here was hurt purty bad and you was outta town, see? We had to do somethin'! I guess I'ma gettin' ahead a' myself though cause there was this here gunfighter, name of Kin Creed, come to town and he wanted to fight Mr. Dillon, and then he slugged some poor nester at the bar over there so that Mr. Dillon would have to fight him and then…oh he was awful fast, Doc, I never seen anything like it… and then…well he shot the gun out of Mr. Dillon's hand, see, and the bullet grazed his arm there and it bled an awful lot… but Mr. Dillon just insisted on fightin' him again and…well, there was no one to sew him up but me. I did the best I could, Doc - I know how to sew on a button and I've patched my pants a time or too, but, mercy me, I ain't never in my life ever…"

Doc, Kitty and Matt were watching Chester in amazement, wondering if he was ever going to stop to take a breath.

Doc exclaimed, "Whoa there, Chester! Slow down before you have an apoplexy." The physician looked towards Kitty as a source of rational explanation. She just smiled and nodded in agreement with Chester's story, her blue eyes dancing in amusement. Of course at the time of the incident she had been terrified that Matt was going to get himself killed, but once it was all over and Creed lay dead on the floor of the saloon, she had regained her composure. Creed had been shot in the back by some other hopeful, trying to establish his own reputation with a gun. It had saved Matt from having to face the man a second time.

"I need to look at that Matt." Doc was serious now, his professional self kicking in and his anger forgotten.

Carefully he undid the bandage and peered at the wound. It was sutured well enough, maybe not as neatly as he would have done it - but adequate for the purpose.

"You sure you did this?" He looked at Chester.

"Yessir." Chester hung his head and looked a little sheepish as his skills with the needle were being scrutinized. "I did the best I could, Doc. Mr. Dillon needed to go out there and face Kin Creed again. It was bleedin' purty bad just like I told you, and we couldn't wait till you got back from your doctor's call and…"

"Alright, that'll do. I need to check that in the morning, Matt, just to make sure it doesn't get infected." Doc carefully re-applied the bandage, and Matt fastened what was left of his shirt sleeve once more.

"I did pour pert near half a bottle of alcohol in it, Doc," Chester defended himself.

Adams looked across the table. Maybe it was his own guilt at being away when Matt needed him, or maybe it was the look on Chester's face. He wanted to tell the jailer that he had done a good job under the circumstances, but as he wiped his hand over his face, he was unable to find quite the right words. In the end he settled for something he could say.

"You be sure to come up to the office with Matt tomorrow. You have some cleaning to do."

A quiet "Yes, Doc," was all the Chester could manage in reply.

"Don't worry, you did a good job," Adams mumbled grudgingly, barely audible to the others around the table. Matt heard him though.

"What's that you said, Doc?" the young marshal teased.

"I said Chester did a pretty good job. I just hope those sutures hold. Now I'm going to bed."

Matt laughed and winked at Kitty as Doc got up from the table and walked stiffly across the bar-room towards the doors which Sam was about to lock. Doc hated to admit that Chester had done a good job, mostly because it made him feel bad that he hadn't been there when he was needed. He also knew that Matt was going to have quite a scar from that wound. If he hadn't stopped to go fishing, it would have been his neat sutures holding the edges of the laceration together, and the scar would be less. Just before he left the saloon he heard Matt's words to Chester - he felt that they were directed at him as well.

"Chester, have I ever told you how much I appreciate you being around?"

It took a moment for the jailer to realize what his boss had just said. He beamed at the uncommon praise - it made him feel important. Not knowing how to respond, he decided it was time to head for bed himself. Doc stopped and watched as a blushing, flustered Chester stood up from the table.

"I'll be getting back to the jail now, Mr. Dillon. I'll have coffee ready for ya' in the morning."

Out of the corner of his eye Doc could see Kitty move a little closer to the marshal and quietly ask, "Did you really make such a big mess of Doc's office?"

"I didn't think so - but we were in a hurry."

Once more Doc wearily climbed the steps to his office. He wondered what always made these things happen when he tried to take a few hours off. He knew that Matt didn't blame him, but he felt guilty just the same. Supposing that bullet had gone deeper and the wound had been more serious? But if he was going to get any sleep at all tonight, that was a thought he would have to push from his mind.

End


End file.
